“Sweetie, I really think we should move into a two bedroom.”
“What?”
“It’s just that this house is so small and we really should be looking for a two bedroom.”
“But we only come home to sleep.”
“We’re here all weekend long.”
“When we’re not at work.”
“This way when my family or your family comes to visit, they can stay in the other room and it won’t create the mess it now does in the living room.”
“Karen, it would be cheaper for us to pay their hotel each time. Do you really think we need another bedroom?”
Do I? Nope. Of course we don’t need another bedroom and the amount of rent saved would easily allow us to go to Turkey once a month. I don’t think we should move into a two-bedroom. My mom does.
“Maybe I should take a writing class?”
“What? You don’t need a writing class, you just need to write more.”
“But I write so badly.”
“No you don’t and a class won’t help that anyway.”
“But maybe I cant take a class that tells me what I’m doing wrong or one that helps me find my voice? A class where the teacher can tell me that I should keep trying or just cut my losses and move on.”
“Karen, you’re fooling yourself. You’ve already taken all the necessary classes.”
Have I? Would a class really help? Nope. Why do I know? Cause I took it. Did I think it was going to help? Nope. But Jake did.
“It’s really important that I learn how to speak French better, with a perfect accent.”
“I shouldn’t quit my job when they think so highly of me.”
“Why would I move to California when I’m already so far away from home?”
“I can’t be a real writer if I don’t like James Joyce or Hemingway.”
Who says? Why are other people’s thoughts, words, priorities and judgements so important? Why do I hold myself to the expectations of others?
In the blur of other people’s conversations and questioning, I’ve been having a hard time finding my own thoughts. And it’s important that I do. It’s my life. These are my days on this earth and it’s my right to use them up as I wish. As long as I’m not harming others, I should be allowed to execute them according to my own wants.
And I will.
I’m learning to distinguish my voice within the noise.
Previously? Random.
I’ve always been fascinated with how little we know about our parents.
A few years ago, when I first started writing, I went around and asked my friends how their parents had met. Many of them had no idea. (Most of the ones who did, unfortunately had a really boring story, but that’s another issue.)
I remember being appalled at how little we knew about the people who brought us into this world and with whom we spent many waking moments of our childhood and adolescence. I’d never thought to ask my grandmother what kind of a daughter my mom was or my father about his memories of boarding school.
As someone who lives really far away from her family, one of my biggest fears has always involved a rapidly spreading disease taking away one of my parents before I had a chance to say goodbye. I specifically didn’t say “before I was ready” since I’m not sure I’d ever be prepared for the demise of either of my parents. But the fear of not even making it to Turkey in time used to overwhelm me enough to consider moving back home.
I decided that I wanted to get to know my parents better. Like many caregivers in one’s life (i.e. teachers, psychologists, etc.) interaction with parents tends to start as a one-sided relationship. Obviously, in the beginning, you’re too small and can’t take care of yourself. Your parents are fully focused on you and you’re often focused on their focusing on you. You don’t spend too much energy trying to figure out what their life outside involves, as you often don’t want them to have a life besides the one with you. I’m sure this doesn’t apply to everyone. It did to me. I always cried when my parents went out at nights. I wouldn’t care what they were going out to do, all I cared was that they were leaving me.
Over the years, my relationship with my parents changed and I found out a lot about their relationship with each other, the early days of their marriage, their family dynamics with their parents and siblings. But I still don’t feel like I know my parents as well as I want to.
I often wonder what their aspirations were before they met each other. Did they have another significant other that they almost married? Did they fight as much as my sister and I with their siblings? Do they feel like they’ve achieved what they set out to do? Did they even set out to do something? Did they always only want to have two kids? What’s their happiest childhood memory? What about the saddest?
I just wish I could have met my parents when they were kids. Would I have liked them? Were they too quiet? Too popular? Too geeky? I wish I could know more about their own childhood and pranks and naughty things they did that drove their parents crazy.
So I decided I wanted to take vacations with each parent separately. A week where all we talk about is their childhood. Their life. I feel like if I get to know them better, it won’t hurt so much to know that they might not be around forever.
Which is bullshit since it will hurt like mad regardless.
But at least this way I won’t feel like I’ve missed out on the chance of knowing the people whose genetic makeup merged to create me. This way a part of them will live through me and I can tell their stories to my children and my children’s children.
This way I won’t regret not knowing my parents.
Previously? Artistic Expressions.
They say girls have a soft spot for their dads.
I’m not sure of the accuracy of that sentiment but it definitely applied to my mom.
My grandfather passed away eleven years ago. He got an extremely rare disease that practically made his bones melt. He was fine one day and gone within a week. In the week after my grandfather’s passing we had many visitors but my mom was mostly in a daze.
One of her clients approached her and said, “May God never give you as much pain as you can endure.”
I still remember the surprised look my mom gave the woman. She thought the client was inappropriate and uncaring.
It took us years to fully understand the depth of the woman’s wisdom.
Humans are capable of handling large doses of pain. Really large doses.
I spend hours of my day worrying about the stupidest things. I worry about work and performing well. Increasing the speed of a stored procedure. Laying out a usable interface. Debugging an executable that keeps hanging.
On the weekend I worry about the day ending. Not spending enough time writing my novel. That I still suck at the saxophone and that I’m out of milk.
I really do worry about the stupidest things. I get upset and I let it get to me.
Last thanksgiving I hurt my back, without doing anything. After a month of struggling with doctors and turning suicidal thanks to steroids, I found out that I had two herniated discs on my back. I spent the last seven months making twice weekly trips to the physical therapist, taking pills that ate the lining of my stomach, and getting poked by acupuncture needles that caused my body to react in the most unusual ways. I felt like crap. I got better. And I felt like crap again.
Last night, my neck started hurting. I felt like someone was sticking a wooden pole where my skull met my neck. As Jake told me about his day, my left side slowly started to fall asleep. It was as if thousands of ants walked up and down my arm.
I took some Vioxx and went to bed. I figured I must be exaggerating or hallucinating the pain.
Well, the morning greeted me with a big smile and even more pain. Less awareness on my left side, acute pain on the arm. Three hours of begging on the phone and my doctor said I should go over there. He said back pain doesn’t move up the spine and had I been to a neurologist yet?
Not what I wanted to hear.
I go to the doctor, I wait in the office, I walk in, he pokes me with paperclips. He says it looks like I might have another slipped disc, this time on my neck.
Suddenly, everything else doesn’t seem so worrisome anymore.
I only hope I don’t have to have as much pain as I can endure.
Previously? Museum.
I used to be a very private person.
I always thought that my problems were my private business and that no one needed to know those things about me. My mother, on the other hand, believes on the public distribution of information. No matter what the issue was, she’d find a way to bring it up in conversation.
“I was talking to Stella today and she was talking about how she just had a breast reduction and how her doctor was so great….”
“Rita just told me about how her son had his herniation fixed. She says it’s a real simple operation”
Whatever my concern might be, it just so happened that someone else would mention it to my mom that very day.
Yeah, Right.
We’d fight endlessly about how she couldn’t possibly keep anything to herself. Privacy wasn’t something my mom understood very clearly.
Recently I’ve been having a bit of a change of heart on this matter. I still believe in the importance and relevance of a right to privacy. If I want something kept a secret, my family and friends who happened, for one reason or another, to find out about it, should respect my wishes.
The part I’ve been rethinking is the desperate need for secrecy.
While we glorify individuality, I think we all, on some level, feel the need to be a part of something. People like to be able to relate to each other. We feel most alone when we think we’re the only person who’s been faced with an unfair disadvantage.
How come I’m the only person who develops cancer at the age of twenty?
Why do I have to wear braces as an adult? No one else does, I will look like a freak.
The thing is, you’re not alone. You’re never alone. You’re not the only one who has cancer or wears braces as an adult. You’re not the only one who lost a loved one or can’t have a baby. You’re not the only one who’s been cheated on or married an already married person.
While everyone handles a situation in his or her own individual ways and there are no clear-cut solutions to a problem, sometimes all you need to know is that you’re not the only one. And putting aside the emotional benefits, at times there are even practical reasons for sharing.
If you’re suffering from an unusual illness, it might benefit you to share that with someone because they might know of a new cure that’s being tested or a doctor whose specialty is your disease. Why not benefit from that? And you’ll never know about all this information and sources around you unless you speak up.
While I still don’t condone casually bringing up a subject you might be touchy about, I do think that using the people whom you trust around you and sharing isn’t really a bad thing. It’s surprising how much you’ll find out just by saying a few words. It’s amazing how many people are going through or have already gone through the very same thing.
If you knew they could help you, would you talk then? If your answer is yes, then remember that life is not an open notebook and nothing is for free. You must give some to get some.
And if your answer is no, I’d challenge you to give it a try next time. Start with just sharing it with one person. See what happens.
You might be surprised.
Previously? Not So Common.
I work on wall street where many people make more money in a month thanothers have in a lifetime. Some of these people pay a monthly rent that’sclose to my yearly salary.
Most of the above mentioned people, however, come in to work before dawn,some even as early at 4:30am. They stay here until 8,9, sometimes even 10 orway past midnight. (at the lower ranks of the firm there are many analyststhat simply go home to take a shower and come back, but these poor soulsearn very little for the enormous time commitment that they call a job.)These really high level managers never really get to see their children growup. How could they? They’re never home.
Some of these men (as they almost always are) are more than happy to admitthat they like the money. They want the money. They want the prestige. Ihave no issues with such people.
My beef is with the other set. The ones who claim they’re doing it for theirfamily. The ones who spend up to sixteen hours of their day away from thevery family for which they’re trying to provide opportunities.
I don’t know who they think they’re fooling but it’s not me and I bet nottheir family either.
I don’t mean to imply that money isn’t important or that it doesn’t allowfor amazing opportunities. But I think our society strongly undermines theimportance of shared time.
I grew up in a pretty decent household, money-wise. My parents were kindenough to get my sister and me almost anything we asked for. We neverreally wore brand names or had cars, but we didn’t ever feel deprivedeither. While I spent countless hours playing with the toys my parentsbought me, some of my fondest childhood memories are from times we spenttogether as a family.
My father would spend days planning our birthdays. He was famous in theneighborhood for throwing the best birthday parties ever. My sister’sfriends to the day tell him how awesome the parties were. My mother wouldbribe me to ditch school so we could spend the day together and go shopping(all right, that might not be a good example setting, but it was qualitytime with my mom). One of my favorite vacations ever was when I was thirteenand we went to Disney World as a family. Another one a few years ago when Imet my sister and my mom in Rome and my dad joined us after three days. Orwhen I was in London for work and my mom came to hang out with me.
None of the presents I ever got is more valuable than the memories I havewith my family. Money might be able to buy presents and toys and vacationsand exotic trips but if your children don’t get to spend them with you,you’ve deprived them of the thing they need most.
This doesn’t go just for parenting. When was the last time you called a goodfriend and asked to hang out? We take the people around us for granted waytoo often. We think they’ll always be there. What if your friend who lives afew streets down, and whom you never see but you always could cause he’sright there, decides he’s moving across the country?
Why wait for an occasion? Call now. It doesn’t matter what you do, only thatyou do it together.
Previously? Oxymoron.
My father has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He’s never been officially diagnosed but you can take my word for it.
Most of my childhood was spent with his rearranging the small pieces of paper by my mom’s bedside. Or I’d be in my bedroom chatting with a friend and my dad would walk in to say ‘good evening’ when he came home from work. After he closed my door, he’d knock once more and pick up a random piece of thread or anything else tiny that might be on the floor of my room. He’d do this at least three times before he left completely. If a tiny plastic part of anything was lost he’d spend hours looking for the piece or get a new one made. If that was impossible, he’d buy it all from scratch. We never ever had any broken anything in our house. We still don’t.
My sister’s son, Jeff, must have somehow taken after my father. Today my sister dropped me off to hang out with the babies while she went off to run an errand. Jeff, Aksel and I put on a movie, Peter Pan, and played games while we watched it. An hour later my sister returned and Aksel ran to the door to greet his mom. Jeff walked up to me and motioned me to turn off the vcr. As I pressed the button, he yelled. I looked at his face, trying to comprehend what bothered him. After a few seconds he walked over to the vcr and pressed the eject button.
He was mad that I’d turned off the vcr without taking the movie out.
Once I took the video tape out and placed it in his box, he went off to greet his mom. On the way, he picked up her slippers.
There is absolutely no way a family member is allowed in the house with shoes on. Jeff will make sure the slippers are set in front of the door as the family member gets off the elevator. Last night, on the way to bed I passed by the hall with him on my lap and he complained that the door to the attic was open and wouldn’t go to bed until he saw me close it.
Since my father doesn’t live in the same house and neither my sister, nor my brother in law are all that tidy, it totally blew my mind to see how Jeff might be such a neat freak.
I wonder if OCD is inherited.
Either Jeff is extremely observant and is somehow imitating his favorite family member, which happens to be my dad or this need for order is something my father’s genes passed down to little Jeff.
It’s amazing, however, that the genes managed to skip right over both my sister and me.
Previously? Amerika.
My sister’s little boy looks at me with eyes shining and says “Amerika!” After a few minutes we all realize he’s calling me. I look in the eyes of Aksel, pronounced the same as Axel, and say “What’s my name?”
He doesn’t hesitate. He goes, “Amerika!”
We all laugh. My sister has spent the last three weeks trying to teach my nephews my name. She wanted to surprise me so she also taught them a bit more. She’d go “Where’s Karen coming from?” and Aksel would say “Amerika!” And they’d all be happy.
So, of course, the poor boy thought that was my name.
Yesterday after we found the discrepency out we tried to set the record straight. “No, no sweetie her name isn’t America, it’s Karen.” He looked at me for a few minutes and said “Karen.” And then two minutes later I’d ask him “What’s my name?” he’d go “Amerika!” And I said “No. No. Karen.” Another hour later I asked once more and he said “Ame–Karen.” So we burst out laughing. By the end of the day he’d figured it all out. And called me “Karen.”
The little episode made me think of my life and how what I represent changes drastically when I come here. In the States, I am the foreigner. The girl who’s from Turkey. Over here it’s just the opposite. I’m the one who’s in America.
I used to think that this duality pointed out the fact that I didn’t really belong anywhere anymore. A foreigner in both of my lands. Never really fitting in in either location and always in between. But I don’t think that way anymore. I figure I’m much better off than many…
I belong in both of these countries.
Previously? Tick Tick Tick.
And we’re down to one.
I’m going home.
I’m going home.
This time tomorrow I will be on the plane. In less than forty-eight hours, I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’ll be walking down the coast of the Bosphorus, licking the best ice cream ever. I’ll be watching the waves and enjoying a delicious conversation with my best friend, Levent.
I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’ll be curling up in the living room with my mom and my sister. I’ll be sitting on my dad’s lap. I’ll be giving kisses to my grandmothers.
I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’ll be eating the special delicious salads that I can never find in New York. I’ll be eating Turkish feta cheese on toasted bread and drinking sour cherry juice. I’ll be picking fruits right from the tree. Erik and Dut, both non-existent in America.
I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’ll call up my childhood friend Milka and visit her and her little boy. I’ll be hugging them, too. We’ll talk for hours. We’ll remember the old days, we’ll make new and wonderful memories.
I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’ll do my best to write daily. Home always makes me think of my past. It’s amazing how everything feels like it should be the way it was when I was seventeen. Each time I go, there are new places, new trends, and the money is worth even less.
But I’ll be hugging my nephews.
I’m going home!
Previously? Wasted Emotions.
This Friday at 5:30, I’ll be flying to Istanbul.
Each time I book a flight to go home, the same thing happens: suddenly I’m incredibly homesick and the date of my flight can’t arrive soon enough. I start calling all my childhood friends to make sure they put aside time to meet with me. I call my family even more often than we already talk and I think of nothing besides being there.
My family is one of the most precious things in my life. In fact them and Jake might be it for me. The rest doesn’t really matter. Of course I have close friends whom I cherish and people that have and still do significantly affect my life, but my family and Jake are the list of people for whom I’d die. (or at least alter my life significantly to fit with their needs)
So why do I live so far away from a family I adore, you may ask? And that’s a complicated question that would take so much more patience than a regular human’s limit. Let’s just say life here is more in line with the person I am and I realized long ago that without being happy yourself, you cannot spread happiness onto others. My family, although they miss me terribly, completely understands and is even happy for me as they can see the positive effects America has had on me.
Of course this doesn’t stop from making my choice to live an ocean away any easier. Each time I speak with my sister and she tells me of another change in my nephews something inside me starts telling me what a mistake I’ve made and how I’m missing some of the greatest moments of my family. Same feelings emerge on each birthday, New Years, mother’s day, father’s day, etc.
Don’t even get me started on my fears of not being there for the death of a family member should one occur. (Hopefully no time soon, or, even, ever.)
Yet I continue to live here. I continue to believe in my choice. I continue to travel back and forth every three months to show myself that I can still be an active part of my family and live miles and miles away.
In Japanese there are three common directional verbs: ikimasu (to go), kimasu (to come), and kaerimasu(to return). When you go to work and are coming back home, they use “kaerimasu” since you’re returning to your home. They also use kaerimasu if you’re returning home from a vacation. Last week in my class, I told my Japanese teacher that I was “ikimasu” home. And she said that I was supposed to use “kaerimasu” and I objected saying that then I couldn’t use “kaerimasu” for New York, which really is my home. She said I can use it in both cases, which would sound like “I am returning to Istanbul for ten days and then I shall return to New York.” Sounds funny in English but in Japanese it implies that both locations are my home. I love that the language will allow me to represent my true feelings about both locations.
Because as much as New York City is my home, Istanbul will never stop being my home.
Previously? RIP DNA.
My mother never graduated from high school.
There is a word for people like my mom in Turkish but I’ve been struggling with finding an accurate translation. If I look up the word “becerikli” in a Turkish-English dictionary, it says skillful. But I don’t think that’s an accurate translation. We mostly use it to mean a combination of capable, skillful, street-smart and several other related concepts.
My mother has worked pretty much every day of my life. At times she worked eleven-hour days and at times, she only worked a few days a week. She’s never worked in the traditional company setting. When I was a kid, she used to design jewelry and work as a consultant to individuals who wanted custom-made jewelry. She’d draw the design according to their tastes and then get it made for them. She worked with a bunch of jewelry makers, stone setters, etc. After I graduated high school, she reduced the hours she worked in order to learn to relax and enjoy life a bit more.
A few years ago, she started offering decorative advice to a few acquaintances. They would pay her to rearrange the furniture, paintings, etc. in a certain room to give it a new look. She was so good that word of mouth got her new clients. She moved from simple rearrangement to decorating. She went antique shopping. She decorated restaurants. She’s gotten to a point where she ends up having to turn down offers cause she’s too busy.
Yesterday, Jake and I walked over to Borders so that I could check out some GRE books. I’ve been contemplating getting a PhD. Most of the areas I’m interested in require a subject-GRE exam. As I leafed through the biology, literature and psychology exams, I got more and more discouraged. By the time we walked out of the bookstore, I’d almost given up on the idea of applying to college. What was the point? There was no way I was going to get accepted. I even told myself that after a BS and an MS, I had no knowledge to show for all that past education.
Several hours later, I started thinking about my mom and how she’d managed to have several successful careers without much education. Surely such careers were hard to start without the appropriate education background, but she’d done it. And if she could do it, why couldn’t I? I told myself to stop feeling depressed and start making plans. I decided to do research about several jobs I’d love to do and figure out what background the people in those positions had. I also decided to look into different research projects offered by schools in areas I am interested. I figured even if I can’t get into the program now, I might be able to get a job in the area and start learning.
I’ve always been proud of my mom for her tenacity and ability to do just about anything she wanted. But today, she taught me another valuable lesson. She taught me that life is not always conventional.
There are a plethora of paths to reach an end-goal.
Previously? Crappy Web.
“Have you talked to her yet?”
“To whom?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“Look if I wanted to be more straightforward, I would have. Try to think back to our conversations the last time we saw each other.”
She’s silent for a while. I can’t tell if she’s thinking or distracted by something else. After a few seconds, she says, “You mean my mom?”
“Right. You haven’t talked to her, have you?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to?”
“No.”
“But you can’t keep repressing those feelings.”
“I’m not. I don’t care.”
“Are you trying to fool yourself or me? Cause I’m not buying it.”
“I don’t think it’s worth wasting my time talking to someone who’s too shallow to get it.”
“She’s your mother.”
“So?”
“How do you know she’s too shallow? Wouldn’t you be hurt if I thought you were too shallow? Maybe you’re really worried that she’ll understand and still not change. Cause then you can’t tell yourself that she’s doing it because she doesn’t know.”
“Maybe.”
“I still think it’s better to talk things out. Always better to know.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“Maybe. And maybe you make the moment.”
She pauses again. “Maybe.”
I don’t want to push her anymore, “I love you.”
“Me, too.”
I put the phone down and hope the right moment comes soon.
Previously? Girlie.
I’m learning to play the saxophone. When I told my dad about the classes, he said, “Are you sure you want to play that? It’s not really a girly instrument. Why not the piano?”
My first reaction was to laugh. I work in an investment bank and I am a computer programmer. Neither of which are ‘girly’ environments.
As a child, I was quite far away from a tomboy. To the day, I have never climbed a tree. I used to sew clothes for my Barbie dolls. I spent most of my time playing with them or reading. I cried often and I was extremely shy. So I spose I was a girly girl.
And then I started school. Since I suck at history and adore math, I leaned towards the sciences and math. I went to all-girls middle and high schools, so I never knew that girls weren’t supposed to be good at math. Or at being leaders.
I moved from one ‘boy-field’ to another. I studied computers at a college where the ratio of women to men is 1 to 7. (thankfully, that’s not the case anymore) I worked at Bell Labs and then joined the investment bank. Never even paid attention to the fact that I was surrounded by men. I guess I never read the memo explaining that since I was a female, I was supposed to feel inferior. So I just kept on doing what I liked, learning as much as possible.
I pretty much suck at all the ‘girly’ stuff, now. I can’t cook and I hate to clean. I’m pretty messy and I hate shopping for clothes. I never remember to put creams on my skin. Makeup is an effort. I have never ever thought of my wedding day. I don’t even know why TV and film producers think that all women dream of their wedding day. Almost all my good friends are men.
I guess I’ve been lucky that no one ever made me feel less important. No one said, “You’re a woman, you don’t know.” And at this point, I’m confident hell would break loose if they do. I may have many hang-ups but being female has never been one. No one can tell me what I can or cannot do.
So after I was done laughing, I replied, “I love you, Daddy, but I want to learn the saxophone and not the piano.”
Previously? Falling Sky.
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projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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